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Best Poems From
HERBERT NEHRLICH
(04 October 1943)
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381.
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Wishes **
If wishes were sparrows
they'd fly from the barn
as the mind's little arrows
and they'd tell a great yarn.
If you wish deep inside you
for a miracle gift
you have no one to guide you
to just hold you and lift
all your hopes to the heavens
where the gods sit and think
where the nines and the sevens
as the lucky ones wink,
you must harbour your wishes
be convinced without doubt
for, if wishes were fishes
you would be the king trout.
Herbert Nehrlich
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382.
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With Tools Like These.....
As darkness fell, out in the shed
the tools and spiders went to bed.
Said, with a sigh, the brickie's Hammer
'I am the king', but, with a stammer,
the Saw objected, 'I can cut
while you sit on your shiny butt.'
The Hammer, in no mood for tales,
said 'I can drive a thousand nails
into a wall of steel or wood
it's something that you never could.'
The Saw now bared his freshly honed
one hundred teeth and then intoned
'let's see first thing, which tool he grabs
you go to bed, I'll work my abs.'
And in the morning, both were fools,
the farmer didn't need his tools.
The Saw attacked the Hammer madly
and hurt his wooden handle badly,
he sawed to cut him down to size
but did experience a surprise.
A pin, quite long, of hardened steel
did interrupt the Saws quick meal.
It was the handle's metal centre
and not designed for saws to enter.
It gave the Hammer added strength
and occupied the handle's length.
There was no time for Saw to slow
his chewing movements, to and fro.
As a result his teeth bit in
and lost some substance to the pin.
Some other tools suggested that
the two give up their ugly spat.
'You need to save the teeth', said Wires
the farmer though, now got the pliers.
Herbert Nehrlich
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383.
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Words For Nothingness
Is it barbs you send
sharp arrows launched
with deadly aim
and righteous accuracy?
Your words are heard
by ears all used to tunes
from Sound of Music, though
not saber rattling, not at all.
I plead with you, if I still may
to give me words that soothe,
as they pass subtle salivary glands
and drool and bathe in wisdom
like wooly weanlings,
blissfully baring balsam
of soul and sultry sensorium.
Voice vowels echo
the thoughts of consonants,
consummating orgastically
with hot and tingling tongues
until they hatch and metamorphe
into the meaning of our nothingness.
Herbert Nehrlich
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384.
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Wormboy
His mother saw her little worm
squeeze through the door of their dirt home
he wiggled, stretched, she saw him squirm
upon his head a brownish dome.
'And where might YOU', she said to him
'desire to elope to slyly? '
'Up to that treeline, at the rim',
said junior softly and quite shyly.
The mother thought for one brief second
remembering that weird disaster
which happened there, when freedom beckoned
to her own mate, her earthworm master.
He had ascended to the range
where cooling breezes blow you dry
and thought it rather odd, well strange
as he observed those beasts that fly
that none of them paid scant attention
to him who looked so fat and plump
they seemed to hold a bird convention
so Master worm sat by a stump
unwrapped the sandwich he had brought
was just about to take two bites
when he looked up, as he'd been taught
to watch the show of aerial kites.
He never heard the howling sound
a buzzard doing superspeed
the sandwich dropped onto the ground
(would later nourish one green weed) ,
and beak and worm were thus united
into the stomach he descended
and never ever was he sighted
in Wormwood Valley, where he ended.
So mother worm did one great wiggle
propelled her son into their lair
the boy had time for one quick giggle
he did not think this treatment fair.
So later when his mother slept
he quickly left, no steps were heard
that evening his mother wept
up on the ridge, a happy bird.
So, if you are a little creeper
it pays you to obey your Mum
'cause after all she is your keeper,
and little worms are rather dumb.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read more: mother poems, freedom poems, son poems, happy poems, green poems, home poems, howl poems, remember poems, sleep poems
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